


New Romantics

by allisonsargent



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, BRAZUKA OT5, M/M, OKAY EVERYONE'S IN COLLEGE, but honestly Neymar is reckless as hell and it's very fun to write, they all own an apartment and lots of silliness and recklessness and yes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonsargent/pseuds/allisonsargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pandemonium, to most people, is a negative attribute, one of the countless things in life that could be considered undesirable. Most are not able to remain in the clutches of pandemonium, not able to keep up with the chaos and the disorder of such a lifestyle. Neymar, however, was not one of those people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> SO I CASUALLY PUT MY MUSIC ON SHUFFLE, THIS SONG CAME ON, AND SUDDENLY, INSPIRATION STRUCK! I wrote this on a whim, and I'm not hoping for it to be TOO long, but oh I had to write it, I felt compelled to. I love reckless Neymar, and I'm always a sucker for fics with the Brazukas. Also, Rafa/Marc are going to be a big part here, because honestly, we need more of them! I hope you like this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the flashing strobe lights, deafening music, and yelling, getting anything close to taking a nap in this place was practically impossible. This is where he usually spent his Saturday nights, partying alongside people he didn't know, and quite honestly, didn't want to know. Sometimes, but only sometimes, there'd be a little more than dancing, but Neymar didn't kiss and tell. He wasn't sure why this place attracted him so much, but loud music and dancing called Neymar like a moth to a flickering flame. He should be sleeping, or maybe working on his newest art project, he should really be doing anything else but be here. Here he was though, sitting at a bar stool, behind a crowd full of people he didn't know the names of. 
> 
> He had potential, he had potential, he had potential — but having potential means nothing when you have nothing to use it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS LISTENING TO A SONG AND I RAN WITH THIS I'M SORRY THIS PROBABLY ISN'T TOO GOOD but I'm hoping this develop this story, but I want you guys to get a glimpse of Neymar's recklessness in the first chapter. I promise the next chapter will be a little more solid and stable, and comments and kudos are appreciated greatly, because it makes me want to write more when I get feedback. I'd like opinions on this, so if you could tell me whether or not you like it, it'd make me really happy :D Happy reading!

Pandemonium, to most people, is a negative attribute, one of the countless things in life that could be considered undesirable. Most are not able to remain in the clutches of pandemonium, not able to keep up with the chaos and the disorder of such a lifestyle. Neymar, however, was not one of those people. 

Which was plainly displayed as the young Brazilian squeezed his way past the multitude of people who currently inhabited the dance floor. Their swinging bodies kept up with the constant blaring of the DJ's music, music so loud that Neymar swore made the room tremble. If he was honest, it would take quite a few drinks for Neymar to go out and dance on the floor with as much vigor as the others did — because of course, their sudden bursts of energy were supplied by the very drinks they held in their hands. He was determined to make his way to the other side of the club in a minute flat, because Neymar was quite aware that if he lingered on the dance floor, he'd be asked to dance, which he didn't exactly want to do, considering that he'd been dancing for the past two or three hours. He was sure that he didn't need anymore dancing, but rather, what Neymar _really_ needed right now was a shot of vodka and a ride home. He was sure that he could get _at least_ one of those — and maybe with some begging, _both_ of them. 

Making it to the other side alive, he hopped upon one of the bar stools, laying his head down on the counter. The intense luminosity of the neon signs admittedly gave Neymar a spectacular headache, and while his conscious was telling — maybe _demanding_ was a better word — him to not even think about ordering a drink, he only really had one response; _when did he ever listen to what others said, anyway?_

" _Oye_ , Neymar, you can't put your head on the counter, _hombre_ ," greeted Gerard, slapping him on the side of the head, "Let me guess, you have a headache?" 

Neymar weakly lifted his head up, squinting in annoyance at the Spaniard, "Wow, I _wonder_ how you knew? Is it because I put my head down on the counter, or because I haven't ordered a drink yet?"

"What can I say?" grinned Gerard, with that fantastically pearly white smile of his, "I think I'm a fortune teller, I really should've pursued a career in telling fortunes. I'm going to tell you another one, are you ready?" 

He rolled his eyes, " _Listo_." 

Turning around for only a second, Gerard grabbed one of the nearby glasses, and moved his hands over the top of it, as if the green colored glass was actually a crystal ball, "I predict.. That you're never going to get laid again," Neymar slapped Geri on the arm, and the Spaniard laughed, continuing, "But, only because you're going to fall in love and —" 

"— Love? You know I'm not one of those kind of people, Geri." Neymar halted the other to a stop right there, not even wanting to hear another sentence about _love_ , something he absolutely did not believe in. The only two things that he even came close to loving in this world were his _art_ , and _himself_. Another person? No way, that's not how Neymar functions. 

"Oh, yes,  _perdón_ , I forgot that you're only a fuck and go kind of person," The sarcasm in Gerard's voice was as evident as clear day, but in reality, the Spaniard wasn't too off from being right. After a small pause, Gerard's tone went from sarcastic to sympathetic, as he spoke slowly to his friend, "Neymar, you can't live your life like that though, man.. I know things got messed up with —" 

"— Don't even _say_ his name Geri, or so help me God, I will tackle you over this counter." 

Hearing the serious tone in Neymar's voice made Gerard back off slightly, because Neymar had a quickfire temper, and it was one attribute of Neymar that most didn't like to mess with, "I won't, I won't, sorry." He paused, as if he was considering something, "Also, I'm a good few inches taller than you, Ney. You tackling me would be very interesting, _no_?" 

"Shut up, Geri! I just want a vodka on the rocks, _por favor_ , if that's not too much work for you. If we were going to have a conversation, I'd text you, not come talk to you at your job. Which you should be doing, right now, by getting me my drink." 

"Being in your presence is a lot of work for me, but if vodka'll shut you up, I think it won't be too much of a hassle." Gerard winked playfully, "Ouch, Neymar, ouch. I'll be right back, stay right there." 

Neymar nodded, placing his head down once again, his eyes slowly fluttering to a close. Between the flashing strobe lights, deafening music, and yelling, getting anything close to taking a nap in this place was practically impossible. This is where he usually spent his Saturday nights, partying alongside people he didn't know, and quite honestly, didn't want to know. Sometimes, but only sometimes, there'd be a little more than dancing, but Neymar didn't kiss and tell. He wasn't sure why this place attracted him so much, but loud music and dancing called Neymar like a moth to a flickering flame. He should be sleeping, or maybe working on his newest art project, he should really be doing anything else but be here. Here he was though, sitting at a bar stool, behind a crowd full of people he didn't know the names of. He could do so much more with himself, he knew.

 _He had potential, he had potential, he had potential_  — but having potential means nothing when you have nothing to use it on. 

What interrupted his thoughts was the movement Neymar sensed beside him. Even with his head down, Neymar felt someone sit in the chair beside him; which was absolutely okay with him, as long as said person didn't attempt to strike up a conversation with him, but most people didn't, anyway. 

"Hey.." came the voice from the person beside him, "Are you okay?" 

Neymar figured, that if he didn't do or say anything, the other would get the hint, and leave him alone, as most people did when Neymar ignored them — or even better, they weren't actually talking to him. Lifting up his head would give him the answer, but if he lifted up his head, he'd be prompted into initiating a conversation, and as sociable as Neymar was, when he had a headache, it was better if you left him alone. 

But, the other person didn't know that, so instead of just verbally asking the same question over and over and hoping for a response, they started to shake Neymar's shoulders, trying to get an answer that way —  _well, they're definitely talking to me_ , thought Neymar. "Are you okay? Heeeeeeeeey, are you okay?" 

Just wanting for the incessant repeating of the question to cease, Neymar's head shot up quickly, looking at the other person next to him. He'd never seen him before, and from a first glance, it was obvious that he wasn't Spaniard, but was European of some sort. Said man was tall — possibly tall enough to rival Gerard, but Neymar wasn't totally sure — and had this ivory colored skin that, for some reason, contrasted well with his golden blond hair, and ocean blue eyes. He had a kind face, and the only emotion portrayed on his face at the moment was kindness and the maybe slightest bit of worry. 

"I'm fine —" Neymar started, but his sentence was interrupted by the worried shriek of another person who was approaching Neymar and the stranger with wild, worried eyes. 

"— Marc! Dios mio, you scared me, I thought I lost you!" said another man, who had emerged from the crowd in practically the blink of an eye. He was small, maybe the size of Neymar himself, with pale skin, and brown hair and eyes to match. While his friend, Marc, was purely angelic looking, this guy was attractive to Neymar, but in an odd way. Something about him shouted _adorable_ , and like his friend, his face portrayed kindness. 

"Well, Lio," The blond spoke slowly, as a smile spread across his face, a thick German accent laced through his words, "I am very very tall, it is easy to find me in a crowd, no?" 

"I guess.. But, I gave the notes go Geri, so, let's go, it's getting really really late!" Lio said, grabbing a hold of his friend's hand, tugging him off the bar stool. Lio looked eager to leave, and Marc looked willing to comply. Despite the fact that he glanced at the bottles of Pepsi on the bar shelf wistfully, Marc didn't look all too bothered about leaving.

With a friendly smile, Marc waved at Neymar, "I hope you feel better!"

He hadn't really gotten the chance to tell Marc that he really felt fine, and wasn't sick, but Neymar figures that in the long run, this interaction wouldn't really help him or hurt him. So, with a bored look, Neymar stares ahead, waiting for Gerard to come back with his drink. 

The bartender eventually did come back, holding Neymar's glass out to him, "Here's your vodka, prince Neymar." 

"Thank you." said Neymar, diving into the glass head first, gulping the drink down quickly. The liquid burned his throat, if he was being honest, but it was a temporary feeling, and the taste of the alcohol made everything else bearable. 

He wouldn't drink too much, two, three glasses, tops. The young Brazilian promised himself this, because he really didn't need a hangover tomorrow, he needed to finish his art project that was due in exactly two days. So, he made a deal with his inner conscious, promising himself he wouldn't get wasted, not even in the slightest bit; _then again, when did he ever keep his promises, anyway?_

* * *

As Neymar stumbled out from the club, his first thought was centered around how humid it was outside. As the clock stroke twelve, it was a new day in Barcelona, another day promising to be hot and humid. After living in Barcelona for the past two years, Neymar was now accustomed to the heat that was delivered around the peak of the Summer. The hot, humid air clung to Neymar like a second skin, and at this point, the Brazilian wished that he was sitting by the AC in his apartment that he shared with four of his best friends. That sounded much better than walking through the sweltering midnight heat — or rather, stumbling through the streets, considering that he'd had a little more than the two or three drinks he'd promised himself he wouldn't surpass. 

His apartment was fifteen minutes or so from the club, and lucky Neymar forgot his cell phone back at the apartment. In all honesty, he hadn't thought to go back for it because he hadn't anticipated to be drinking, or even staying for more than an hour or so. In cases such as these, Dani would scold him, most likely, because Dani was the oldest of all the Brazilians in the apartment, so he was the one who kept everyone in line. And Neymar knew that as soon as he'd walk into the apartment, Dani would go on and on about how Neymar has to be more responsible, and Rafinha, Neymar's best friend, would agree with Dani because usually everyone agreed with what Dani said, because he was just a wise soul. Neymar agreed with Dani too, just not when the spilling of the cold, hard truth was directed at Neymar himself. He figures that he could build a castle with all the bricks Dani threw at him — be more responsible, be more careful, do _this_ , do _that_. 

He hummed an old Brazilian tune to himself as he stumbled against the walls, laughing like a little kid at the _tiniest_ things. Neymar wanted to sit down, and wait for Dani and Rafa to get the hint that they needed to come pick him up, and nights like this made Neymar wish to never go out alone again, maybe become a little more responsible with his outings. But, it was the same thing every time something like this happened; he'd get drunk, then would have to walk home alone, and after all that, he'd proclaim that he wouldn't ever go back to that club again. But everyone who even remotely knew Neymar, including Neymar himself, knew that was going down the road to ruin, and that he'd surely go back. After the fallout with his family, he really didn't have much muse to do much of anything besides this silly routine of drinking and dancing every other night; and there were some days where he really wanted to stop, to change.. But he was too proud to admit defeat, and defeat to him was telling others his problems. So, he kept on doing what he was doing, but at the same time was miserable while doing so.

After a while of walking, Neymar heard a car slowly coming to a stop behind him. If he was sober, that would set off red flags in his mind, and he'd probably run, or go into the nearest store. But, of course, he couldn't do either of those things, because number one, running while intoxicated is not exactly a walk in the park, and at this time, every store was closed — they'd probably throw his drunk self out, anyway. So, he just continued to walk against the wall, praying that whoever was in that car wasn't a murderer coming to kill him — because in that case, Neymar would want to tell Dani to sell all his artwork, and advise him to not let Douglas sell Neymar's collection of snapbacks, because those were precious to Neymar. 

There were some incoherent whispers behind him and after some minutes of following Neymar, the car halted to a stop, and Neymar heard the car doors open, then shut. The sounds of footsteps came from behind him, and something turned on in his mind, "This is it," Neymar wailed, but it wasn't quite as loud as Neymar thought, "I don't wanna die!" 

Instead of being shown the face of someone who might possibly hurt him, Neymar came face to face with another boy that he knew he'd seen before, but in his hazy state, couldn't exactly remember where. "Die? Where are you getting _that_ from?" asked the boy, who wrapped his arms around Neymar's waist, allowing for the boy to stand up straight — or at least, not slump anymore. 

"You're not going to kill me?" questioned Neymar, his voice low. 

"No..?" He looked confused, "Why would I..? Okay, anyway, Marc! Marc help me get him in the car.." pleaded the boy, and from behind the car came a tall blond. And suddenly, Neymar remembers that these two were the duo he'd seen at the club earlier. That reassured him a little, because from what he could recollect of them, they seemed fairly nice, and not at all like murderers. The tall blond helped place Neymar into the backseat of the car, which seemed like Heaven at the moment. The cushions were comfy which soothed Neymar's aching legs, and what was possibly even better, they had the air conditioner on full blast, which reached Neymar's heated skin even from the back of the car. 

After all three of the boys were in the car, and brunet looked back at Neymar, "Uh.. Hey, excuse me? Where do you live?" 

"Calle Alta." replied Neymar quickly.

"What'd he say, Lio?" asked Ter Stegen, and Lio leaned in to the blond to repeat what Neymar had said. There was a pause before someone spoke, "I think I know where that is.." 

It was quiet for a few moments, the only sounds Neymar really heard was the pumping of the air conditioner, and the faint humming produced by one of the boys, but Neymar wasn't exactly sure which. The silence was broken when the brunet, Lio, Neymar thinks his name is, asked him for his name. The Brazilian was really only able to give simple, curt answers at the moment, so with his eyes closed, Neymar introduced himself. Marc, the blond, told Neymar that his name was really interesting and that he liked it a lot. He thanked him, because in all honesty, that wasn't a compliment he got very often. For all it was worth, Neymar himself liked his name, because it was definitely on the unique side, and he liked being remembered — how many Neymar's do you meet in your life? 

That was it for the questions, though, because for the rest of the car ride, neither of the three boys initiated anymore conversation. And Neymar was grateful, because his head was currently pounding loudly, and focusing on producing answers to generic questions was one of the hardest things he'd done that night. He had only opened his eyes when he heard Lio and Marc talking about whether or not this was the street that Neymar meant. In fact, this was Neymar's street, and they conveniently parked the car in front of the apartment. Neymar struggled to sit up, but eventually did, and then voiced his thoughts, "This is my apartment." 

Marc and Lio exchanged glances, and with the nod of a head, Marc took the keys out of the ignition, and placed them into his pocket. While Marc turned off the car, Lio exited the car, opening the door on Neymar's side of the car. Lio looked at him with such kindness, and Neymar found it odd that two complete strangers were being so nice to him — he genuinely didn't understand it. Lio leaned into Neymar, helping the Brazilian exit the car, "C'mon, Neymar, we're going to walk to your apartment." 

But, Neymar was stubborn, "N-No," He broke away from Lio, "I can walk by myself.." And he tried to walk a few steps, just to show Lio that he could do it, he didn't need help, but eventually Neymar stumbled, falling to his knees, and scratching both palms of his hands as he tried to break the fall, _"Puta madre!"_

Nobody moved, but with the searing pain in both hands, the Brazilian looked back at Lio, and Marc who now stood beside him, "What are you two doing standing there? Help me up!" Neymar whined, and it sounded absolutely pathetic, and Neymar was mad, because he hated having to depend on other people for help. But look at him now, he couldn't even walk straight — let alone stand up straight. With exchanged glances, Lio and Marc walked over to the Brazilian on the floor, Marc hooking his arms around Neymar's shoulders, and Lio supporting his waist. The three of them walked to the door, which was a struggle to open, but they managed it, somehow. "I live on the third floor.." Neymar said, quietly. 

Lio told Marc that using the elevator was the more convenient option, opposed to taking the stairs. Marc agreed, so they all took the elevator, that was empty at this time of night. It only took a few seconds to get to Neymar's floor, and Marc was the one to knock on the door. 

"Coming!" called someone on the other side of the door, and Marc and Lio didn't know who it was, but for a fact, Neymar knew that it was Rafinha. And he was right, because Rafinha was the one who opened the door, eyes wide as he saw Neymar. He bit his lip, looking behind his shoulder, "Dani, it's Neymar! C'mere, please?" 

And Neymar knew he was so dead now, so so dead. Dani came up from behind Rafa, with a relieved look in his eyes as he saw the Brazilian, "You had us all scared, Neymar, what the hell! Why didn't you call?" 

"I left my phone here." Neymar replied, pouting, "I'm sorry." 

Dani rolled his eyes, averting his eyes from Neymar, only to look at the two boys who were responsible for bringing Neymar to the apartment, "Hey, what are the odds, I swear! How are you doing, Lio?" 

Lio smiled shyly, shrugging, "Nothing much, Dani! Ter and I were just at the club to bring Geri some class notes, and we ran into your friend Neymar, here.. We offered to take him home, because he looked a little tired." 

That wasn't how the story went exactly, Neymar knew, and he wondered why Lio had twinged the story a bit. If he was being honest, what would be more accurate was that Lio and Marc ran into Neymar at the club, then an hour later saw him stumbling down the streets of Barcelona, then, after Neymar wailed about not wanting to die, offered to take him home. Lio's account of what happened would save his ass from Dani's wrath a bit, so he didn't protest, but rather just nodded along with Lio's story. He'd have to thank him, Neymar reminded himself. 

"Thank you Lio! And you too, Marc André!" thanked Dani, and while the older of the group stroke up a conversation with Lio and Marc, Neymar glanced over at Rafa, who was shamelessly staring at Marc André. 

Rafinha eventually felt the intense gaze of Neymar, and when realized that he was caught staring, his cheeks flared red, and he averted his eyes from the tall, angelic looking German. If Neymar would remember this in the morning, he would most definitely bring this up to Rafinha, who was desperately in need of a relationship, Neymar knew. And who knows, maybe Marc André would be into Rafa? Hell, if he wasn't Neymar's best friend, Neymar would be into Rafa! 

Neymar only started to pay attention to his surroundings when Dani and Rafa leaned forward to take Neymar from Lio and Marc André's grasp. Rafinha, strong enough to carry Neymar, proceeded to take Neymar away from the door frame, and towards his room. But, not before Neymar yelled out his thanks to his two heroes, hoping that Lio and Marc André heard him. Even drunk, Neymar had some morals left, and he didn't want them to think that he wasn't grateful for what they did for Neymar, because he most definitely was. 

Rafa dropped Neymar onto his bed, "Go to sleep, Ney." sighed Rafinha, who looked tired, because usually he and Dani both would've gone to sleep earlier, but no doubt they were probably waiting up for Neymar to come back.

Neymar, now comfy in his own bed, didn't have much to say, because his head was slowly lolling to the side, and his eyes were fluttering closed as he struggled to keep them open. So, all Neymar could offer Rafa was a small smile, and a weak good night, but by then, Rafa was already gone. 

This was extremely embarrassing, Neymar didn't want to have to go through this again, he thought to himself. 

_Then again, when did he ever listen to himself, anyway?_


	2. Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, Neymar was very, very talented at this whole art thing, and he’s known it from a young age. He’s able to paint, sketch, create anything his mind came up with in a very short period of time. So he waited until the day before the project was due to actually complete it, because that was how much confidence he had in himself; also because he just didn’t really feel like doing it until now. He now emerged to a high key state of panic, because he told his professor that he’d be using oil paint — and oil paint takes a hell of a long time to dry. So, he figured if he woke up super early and finished the painting, it might possibly be at least touch dry by the next morning; then he’d take it in for his class, which was in the afternoon. But, it was mid-afternoon now, and the paint would never be dry by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way overdue. I honestly hope you all enjoy this! I almost accidentally deleted this fic, ah! I AM SO SORRY THAT IT TOOK SO LONG TO UPDATE, HOPEFULLY I CAN FINISH THIS FIC WITHIN THE NEXT FEW MONTHS! KUDOS AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED. LOVE YOU GUYS!

Mornings, among other things, were not some of Neymar’s favorite things. Hangovers were even higher on Neymar’s list of things he despised. So, when you combine the two together, you get a very unpleasant morning for Neymar, but also for anyone who had the fortunate pleasure of running into the Brazilian.

Neymar woke up with rays of sunlight flooding into his room. He groaned loudly, shielding himself from the light with a nearby pillow. He truly wanted nothing more but to lay in his bed, in total and absolute silence. But he couldn’t exactly relax with the throbbing headache that was haunting Neymar.

“Honestly, I’m never drinking again.” he told himself, as he rolled onto his side to reach over and pick up his phone to look at the time. When he turned his phone on, and the time flashed big and bright on the screen, Neymar shot out of bed. It was mid-afternoon, and at this point of the day, he should’ve been finishing his art project. Now, usually Neymar wouldn’t sweat it, because despite his reckless, party boy attitude, his art was the one thing he took seriously.

When his life had been going better during his senior year of high school, he’d enrolled into an art college close by his apartment in Barcelona. Then midway through his freshman year, things started to collapse on Neymar. But he couldn’t drop out, because this was his one real responsibility and he knew that without having to go to school, he’d completely fall off the train tracks. So, he continued on with his art, and attended school.

Now, Neymar was very, very talented at this whole art thing, and he’s known it from a young age. He’s able to paint, sketch, create anything his mind came up with in a very short period of time. So he waited until the day before the project was due to actually complete it, because that was how much confidence he had in himself; also because he just didn’t really feel like doing it until now. He now emerged to a high key state of panic, because he told his professor that he’d be using oil paint — and oil paint takes a hell of a long time to dry. So, he figured if he woke up super early and finished the painting, it might possibly be at least touch dry by the next morning; then he’d take it in for his class, which was in the afternoon. But, it was mid-afternoon now, and the paint would never be dry by then.

The worst part of this all? This was a major project that would account for about 40 percent of his grade this semester.

The Brazilian let a loud, irritated groan as he rolled out of bed, gripping his iPhone tightly. Neymar didn't bother to fix his hair, slip into his fluffy slippers, or even change out of his Brazilian flag boxers — that's how enraged he was. He stormed out of his bedroom and into the common room, where Rafa and Douglas were lounging on the couch, watching some afternoon football match. While the other two were relaxing, Adriano and Dani were in the kitchen, cooking up something for lunch. Adriano was making coffee, while Dani was holding a bright blue bowl and a whisk, as he whipped whatever was in the bowl.

Dani was the first to notice him, and after last night's festivities, Neymar was honestly expecting for Dani to give him the cold shoulder. What he got was quite the contrary, as Dani seemed to totally ignore what happened last night, and greeted Neymar as he usually would. “Ah, Neymar! The príncipe is finally awake, huh? You must be hungry —”

But, Neymar didn't have any time for this, he didn't have any time to sit around and talk with his friends. He was mad, because of everything, truly; his embarrassment last night, his lingering hangover, and the seemingly disastrous fate of his grades. He interrupted his friend. “— No, Dani!”

“No?” Dani repeated, confused. “You're not hungry? I was making tortas —”

“— Dani! I'm not hungry, please stop!” Neymar, ignoring his conscious, sat down at the kitchen table, rubbing at his temples furiously.

The other two Brazilians must've heard the commotion caused by the youngest one in the kitchen, because soon, Rafa and Douglas were sitting beside Neymar.

“Neymar.. What's wrong?” Dani sounded stern again.

“Yeah, yeah, what's wrong?” chorused the other three Brazilians in unison, leaning in towards Neymar curiously.

“Everything, guys! I'm a fucking mess.” Neymar complained.

“Well, you didn't need to tell us that twice, príncipe.” grinned Rafinha, but was quickly silenced by Douglas, who told him that he wasn't helping and he should shut up.

“Neymar, come on, it's us. You can tell us anything, what's wrong?” Adriano, the wise, calm one, advised.

“I have a headache, and I can't think straight. My project.. It's due tomorrow and the paint — I forgot to set my alarm, and..” And Neymar is just babbling in panic now, his face burning red. “And I'm going to fail, guys. I'm going to f-fail!”

“No, Ney, you won't fail!” Douglas tries to be reassuring. “How about you rush over to the studio, see how much you can get done —”

Neymar saw that Douglas was only trying to help, but in reality, thinking about the piece that wouldn't be finished in time made him panic. He wanted a solution, a way to get out of possibly failing the class.

“Well, how about you go and ask for mercy?” suggests Dani, placing the mixing bowl down momentarily in favor of a bright red apple. He takes a satisfying bite into it, then looks back up at Neymar, who was looking at him expectantly. “Like, go ask your teacher for an extra credit assignment, or an extended day to turn it up? Make up an excuse, say you were sick, or something.”

And that was when Neymar Jr popped out of his seat, and peppered Dani Alves' face with kisses. “You are,” He proclaimed. “The most wise Brazilian I've ever known! Obrigado, Dani!”

He jetted back to his room, getting dressed with a sense of urgency that hadn't been there the last time he was in his room. Neymar usually put a lot of time in his appearance, but at this point, he simply threw on the first few items of clothing he saw. He quickly combed his hair not long after that, then in a rush, shut his bedroom door and flew into the kitchen.

With a farewell to his fellow Brazilians, he quickly headed towards the exit of the apartment. Neymar was afraid that if he waited too long, his window of opportunity would vanish. So he hurried out onto the street, and made his way towards the school. His college was within walking distance from the apartment, so instead than taking his car, Neymar decided to walk.

Well, not quite — rather, he ran to the college, flying past dozens of people with different lives, different stories, different personalities. If he wasn't as determined to get a task done as he was in that moment, Neymar would've taken a nice stroll, observed the sights of Barcelona. He'd walked these streets plenty of times prior to then, but each time he managed to pinpoint something different about it. And that was the pure magic of being an artist; nothing is ever the same. There's always a different color scheme based on the colors of the clothing, sometimes the sky was a darker blue as it foreshadowed rain to come, or maybe the leaves were falling off the trees in a transition of seasons. But, Neymar didn't have time for that. He knew that if he ran fast enough, he'd be able to make the period of dismissal for Professor Enrique's 1:30 class. If he could speak to him in between the ten minutes of spare time the professor had to prepare for his next class, maybe he could spare himself from utter disaster.

He made it to the professor's classroom at exactly 1:18 on the dot. The Brazilian waited for about a minute or so until the door flew open, and a sea of students rushed out from the room. He pushed past the remaining few to get into the classroom, that had only a minute ago been full, but was now currently empty; save for Professor Enrique and Neymar himself.

“Professor.” Neymar clears his throat, to get the attention from the teacher, whose back faced Neymar as he wrote down some art related terms on the whiteboard.

Professor Enrique turns around curiously, eyebrows lifted as he captures the sight of a rather disheveled looking Neymar. “Neymar,” he says. “What a — hmm — pleasant surprise. You're not in class for another hour or two, though. What did I do for the honor of an early visit?” It was silent for a second, and unsaid words lingered in the air; Neymar didn't speak, because he knew that the professor wasn't quite done. “Or should I say, what did you do to have to pay me a visit?”

Neymar rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “It's about my project. The one that's due today.”

“Ah, okay,” laughs the professor, as he sits atop of his desk, arms folded. “I'm expecting some very good work from you, Neymar. You got me very excited when you told me you'd selected oil paints.”

“Yes, thank you.. But, uh.. There seems to be a problem.”

The professor's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “And that would be?”

“My piece.. It's not dry and I — I can't hand it in.” He felt so embarrassed admitting the truth, especially considering how well Professor Enrique was expecting his project to be. Either way, Neymar figured that it was better to own up to his mistake, than to lie his way into another mess up.

Professor Enrique stared at him in fascination, almost. He seemed astonished to hear the admission from the young Brazilian student. It was, in fact, surprising; Neymar usually took his art classes with low tolerance for mess ups, which was exactly how he worked his way up to the top of the class. Neymar wonders if now he's fallen from good graces in professor Enrique's perspective. “You are aware that it is a very large part of your term grade? You will surely fail without handing it in.”

Neymar fiddles with his fingers, suddenly unable to look at his professor; the shame was finally overwhelming him. Neymar had originally planned to make up some grand excuse as to why his project wasn't going to be handed in, and would hope that he'd be given mercy. But as he stood in front of the professor, all he could do is mumble his reply weakly. “Yes, uh, sir.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“This whole situation is unfortunate, Neymar. Out of all the students I've had, you have the most promise. Your artwork is.. Unique, surreal.. If only there was a way you wouldn't have to fail, hmm..” The professor tapped his fingers against a pen, and looked into the distance as if he was thinking. “Neymar, how would you feel if I proposed something to you? A proposal to save you from immediate failure?”

Neymar nodded his head vigorously, absolutely enamored with the mere thought of being thrown a lifeline. “I'd be open to it! Definitely, 100 percent.”

“Instead of failing you for this quarter, I'll give you a way to make up for this little slip up of yours.” The professor propped himself up on his desk, staring at Neymar with a look of intent. “A few other artists and myself are putting together an art gala in a few weeks. We've each decided to pick one promising prospect from our art classes to feature a piece or two in the exhibit. You were the student I'd been keen on choosing, so it's coincidental that it comes up like this..” He pauses. “If you choose to accept, I'd substitute your grade for this for your participation and absolute cooperation.”

Without a moment's hesitation, Neymar's mind had been made up, and the words were tumbling out of his mouth. “I'll do it.”

“Excellent. The piece, new or old, must be approved by me in two weeks.” Then, in an almost challenging tone, the professor asked another question. “Is that too short time wise for you?”

Neymar nodded his head, grinning almost devilishly. “Genius can work anytime, anywhere. I'll have the piece done.”

“In that case.. You're excused for today's class, get a start on your project.”

Excitedly, Neymar smiled, heading towards the door to exit the room. He's bouncing on his heels as he spoke. “You went regret this, Professor! Promise!” And Neymar would make sure that the professor wouldn't regret that decision.

* * *

Even with the most irritating headache possible, Neymar had the biggest smile on his face as he walked down the street. He was ecstatic, partially because of the fact that his grade was salvaged, but also because he was given the chance to showcase his art. He didn't think of a way that the day could get any better from how it was now; but, even without him knowing it at that point, it was about to. 

He'd been minding his own business as he walked home, hands in his pockets, large headphones on his ears. Neymar hadn't thought he'd run into anyone he knew; but then again, that was the magic of something unexpected. He hadn't been bothered until a small hand grabbed the hood of his jacket, tugging on it slightly. Angering his temper, Neymar swung around, eyes wide. “Hey, hey! Don't touch my —” Mid sentence, Neymar glanced up at the stranger in front of him, his viscous front dropping to the floor. His gaze melted, and his cheeks flamed uncomfortably; awkwardly, he looked down at his shoes. “H-Hey.. I'm sorry..” 

The small Argentine gently smiled at the Brazilian, proceeding to shake his head and look down as if he had done something wrong. “Don't worry, it's just — I.. I was calling your name, and you weren't answering. I didn't know how else to get your attention.” 

Neymar immediately removes the headphones from his ears, looping them around his neck. “That'd because of these,” he gestured to the red headphones. “Sorry!” 

“No problem, Neymar.. Don't apologize, really!” 

He called me Neymar, the Brazilian thought, this feels too formal. 

“Hey, hey, you don't have to call me Neymar! I mean, that's my name, but like.. You can call me Ney?” Then, feeling as if maybe that had come off as demanding, he backtracks slightly. “I-If you want, I m-mean! Sorry.” 

Fuck, Neymar thinks, you sound ridiculous. 

“Okay,” And Lionel smiles, and it's one of the most resplendent things he's seen all day; better yet, all week. He pauses, before speaking again. “Ney.” 

“You know, I've been meaning to thank you for uh, yesterday. I didn't think I'd see you —” 

“— So soon?” finishes Lio. 

Neymar nods. “Yeah..” Thinking boldly, he advances to do a very Neymar Jr like move. “I honestly wanted to make it up to you..” 

Lio's eyebrows go up. “And how will you do that?” 

“Let me take you out for coffee.” Neymar blurted out, as though it was the first thing that came to mind; and it was. 

Lio pauses, and Neymar genuinely worries that he was about to get rejected. It wouldn't be the first time, but something about Lio was very appealing to him. The Argentine then starts to walk ahead of Neymar. Gobsmacked, Neymar stares at Lio walks away.

Saddened by the other's actions, Neymar himself turns to leave — until he's called back. “Oye, Brasileño! Where are you going?”

“I thought —” 

“— I'm taking you to my favorite coffee place. Because, you know,” Lio grins. “It's the least you could do.” 

Smiling, Neymar turns, and walks ahead with Lio in the direction of the coffee shop.


End file.
